Lunatic Leni
by Lentex
Summary: Leni Loud may appear innocent, sweet, and lovably ditzy, but what if all of that was simply a front? What if Leni's heart of gold was only a facade to hide something much, much darker? What horrors require an illusion as great as Leni's unfaltering kindness and selflessness to mask?
1. Making Mountains Bigger

The news of Coyle Haven's death shocks the school. Things become quieter, conversations in the hallway are reduced to a murmur. You could feel it in the air: something terrible has happened. He was found dead, _mutilated_ , in a dumpster in the back of a gas station.

 _It's a tragedy,_ said the Royal Woods Tribune. _Such a disregard for human life, such a burning hatred for humanity—in times like these, we ask ourselves, just_ who _is capable of committing such an atrocity?_

"I want you girls to keep quiet about this," Mother says as she pulls me and my older sisters aside. "We don't need any your younger siblings to be upset over this."

At school later that day, outside of my locker, my two best friends, Becky and Blair, approach me.

Blair leans in close. "Did you hear about the—" she looks around as if someone might have been eavesdropping in on the conversation, and then says in a low whisper—" _murder?_ "

I nod. "It's _totes_ scary. Like, what if someone we know is next?"

"That _is_ scary," says Becky, nodding violently in agreement. "Like, someone important? Someone… _popular?_ "

All three of us shudder at the prospect.

"Did you hear the news about Jessica?" asks Blair, changing the subject. "She broke up with Blake."

Becky looks disgusted, forgetting about Coyle's murder. "What a fucking _whore_."

The day drags by slowly, not unlike Coyle had tried dragging himself across my garage floor in a desperate attempt of escape. When it finally mercifully ends like I had mercifully ended Coyle's life by snapping his neck, I return home and retire to my room. Lori is sitting on her bed, holding a worn paperback and reading. The radio is on, and shitty pop music blares from the speakers.

I toss my backpack next to my bed and throw myself down on my back on top of my covers, resting. Lori looks up from her book and gives me a nervous glance, and I notice worry in her eyes.

"Leni," she says, "you're the oldest kid in this family other than me. You need to be careful out there, you know?"

"I know, Lori."

"You need to be responsible. You need to make sure that Lincoln and the others are home from school on time. Right? You need to notice if one of them is missing. Right?"

I sit up and grab my knees. "I'll do my best, Lori."

She returns her attention to her paperback, and I see her eyes slowly moving across the page as she reads. I get up, sort out the things in my backpack, and feel hungry. As I go into the kitchen for a snack, I notice Luna sitting on the table, messing around with her guitar. While she's usually a decent musician, today, her notes are sour and she quickly grows frustrated.

"Are you having trouble?" I ask sweetly.

Luna puts down her guitar. "No, it's just… hard to concentrate, I guess. A lot on my mind."

I nod, understanding.

"I _knew_ Coyle," she says, looking out the kitchen window. "I didn't know him well, but he was in my math and history class. One day, he's sitting at his desk just like everyone else, and then…" she doesn't finish.

I put my hand on her shoulder, and she looks up at me. "It's scary, I know. There's some really bad people out there…" I feel the sudden urge to giggle, and I suppress it with all my might. "There's evil people who want to hurt others…" I bite my tongue. "There's sickos out there that like causing harm to other people for no reason… horrible, horrible sickos…"

My cheeks turn pink, flush with emotion. I can't help it anymore—I burst out into laughter. Luna looks at me like I have three heads.

"Sorry, sorry," I say, wiping away a tear. "I just remembered a really funny joke."

Luna nods and smiles. "Leni, you're always just so… _upbeat_. You're sitting here talking about a dead student, and you're _still_ positive. Sometimes, I want to be more like you. How do you do it? Just be so happy all the time?"

My laughter stops completely and my expression turns serious. _No, Luna, you_ don't _want to be more like me,_ I think, but don't say.

"Just… focus on the good things," I say. "Look for the best in people. That's the easiest way, I guess."

Luna nods, and gets back to her life. I walk over to the counter, and make myself a salad—my favorite snack, but only because it's nutritious. I add a lot of bite-sized tomatoes because when I chomp down on them, it feels like a head exploding inside of my mouth, and take my bowl over to the living room. Luan is sitting on the couch, watching TV, but I can tell she can't pay attention to it. There's too much on her mind.

"Hey, you okay?" I put a concerned hand on her shoulder.

She flinches as if being hit but then notices it's just me. "S-Sorry," she says. "I'm just a bit… jumpy, I guess."

"It's _totes_ no problem."

"I-It's just so s-s-scary that someone I knew… he…" She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to. "It makes you think… am _I_ next?"

" _Luan_ ," I say, stretching out the word sweetly. This sickens me, but I must keep up my front of being someone who actually gives a fuck. "You have a big family, and we all love you. We won't let anything happen to you." I wipe a tear from her eye. "If it makes you feel better, I'll walk you home from school every day."

She smiles and sniffs. "Thanks, Leni. You're… you're really kind, you know?" She hugs me, her wet face pushing into my dress. I want to scream out _You bitch, I just washed this!_ but I remain calm and collected. "I'll let you know if I ever want to come home with me."

"Leni!" I hear Lori's voice call from the upstairs hallway. She walks down into the living room, swinging Vanzilla's keys around her finger. "Mom and Dad said that someone needs to walk Lynn home from practice. I already made plans to drive and meet up with Bobby… would you mind walking her home?"

I haven't even gotten a chance to take one bite out of my salad yet, and already I've been interrupted. Hot rage fills me, enveloping me, but I keep my cool.

"Sure thing, Lori."

I make good time, so when I get to the middle school, Lynn is still practicing football outside. I make my way to the bleachers, brush the dirt off so that I don't get my dress dirty, and sit down.

There's a tap on my shoulder. "Hey, Leni." I look behind me, and it's Chaz, a boy from my grade. "How's it going?"

I smile. "Good," I say. "How about you?"

"Now so well…" He shakes his head. "I was pretty close to Coyle."

On the field, there is a loud cry, and I look to see what's going on. One of the football players was hit to the ground, and she cries out in pain. I bite my lower lip in an attempt to stop from smiling.

" _Ouch_ ," says Chaz in sympathy. I look back to him.

"I'm really sorry to hear that, Chaz."

"It's just so… _fucked,_ you know? His body was, like, all ripped up and stuff. Who in their right mind would do something like that to him?"

"I don't know," I admit. "Someone… not… fully there." I change the subject. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"My little sister's on the football team. I'm walking her home from practice. It's… dangerous out there."

I smile. "Oh, mine too. I'm walking her home after this is over."

"You seem so nice," he says after a brief pause. "We need to hang out more, you know? How about, uh, we get a drink or something tomorrow? My treat."

I'm not flattered by his date request. "Sorry, Chaz. I need to look after my siblings. My family's on edge after the, whole, you know…"

He shakes his hands quickly. "No, no, it's okay! It's fine. I was just wondering."

I turn around, and silence presides over us, the football field, and the town as a whole in the wake of Coyle Haven's slaughter.

* * *

The following things are in order of greatest to least importance to me:

Every morning, I wake up an hour before everyone else, even Lori. I go to the bathroom, and take a long bath. I use Pink Pepperpod Nourishing Body Lotion by _Molton Brown,_ and Lime Basil & Mandarin Shampoo by _Jo Malone._ When I shave my legs, I use a Venus Breeze Razor by _Gillette._ I comb my hair exactly fifty times with my Hershesons Mixed Bristle Oval Cushion Hairbrush by _Hershesons._ My towel, a light green one, is made of Turkish-cotton by _Kassatex._ I store most of my products in my room, only taking them to the bathroom when I need them, in fear of my siblings getting their hands on them, an admittedly terrifying prospect for even me.

My clothing is nearly all custom made. My favorite outfit is a seafoam green dress, with white frills, and triangular sleeves. The fabric is all by _Joann._ With this, I wear 2 and a half inch red hoop earrings by _Divas._ For footwear, I usually wear white sandals, topped with light green bows, and a pair of rounded white sunglasses with black lenses on top of my head, both by _Forever 21._

My two best friends are Becky, a skinny redhead, whose appearance is not at all comparable to my own, and Blair, who is admittedly relatively attractive (not at all, however, as attractive as I) but has a high pitch voice that is annoying. I don't know the last name of either one of them.

My name is Leni Loud. I am 16 years old, living in suburban Michigan in 2018.

I have nine sisters, an older one and eight younger ones, as well as a little brother.

* * *

September turns into October, and October begins its crawl to November. It takes almost two months before things go back to normal, before the dust settles. People, the trivial beings that they are, focus on the next big thing in the volatile news cycle, which this month is a mother that doesn't live too far from me that gave birth to quintuplets.

I'm walking, alone, on a path up a mountain. At the top, there's a really good view and it'd make a great picture for me to post online. I was planning to meet up with Becky and doing it with her, but she had to drop out at the last minute because her father got into a car crash. She had called me on the phone to apologize for not being able to make it, and then broke down sobbing and saying that she hoped so bad that her dad was going to be okay.

"It's _totes_ fine," I said, "you can hang out with me anytime—right now, you need to spend time with your family."

This false display of concern took a lot out of me, and as I talked with Becky and she droned on and on about her problems, I grew tired and unconsciously begin to slide down with my back on my bedroom wall, not realizing I was doing so until I was sitting on the ground. Killing Coyle had changed me, altered me in some mysterious way, and the long term consequences have yet to be observed. It's growing harder to live the lie that I've lived ever since I was able to form coherent thoughts.

I'm about halfway up the mountain, now, and I see a hiker standing on the edge of the trail, just in front of a fairly large drop, admiring the view. He's about my age, and he's distracted—he doesn't hear me coming up the path. I look up and down the path to make sure that nobody is near, and, quickly, not wanting to waste time, I rush over to the hiker, raise my boot, and kick him powerfully in the back. He lets out a yelp and stumbles forward before quickly losing his purchase and falling off the path. The drop isn't _too_ steep, so I doubt he's going to break a leg or anything, but I knew that it was still going to _hurt_ regardless.

I run away as fast as I could, and not until I've sprinted for a whole ten minutes do I feel safe and slow my pace. I'm breathing heavily, and I begin to sweat, and this terrifies me. I'm wearing a brand new windbreaker by _Zumiez_ , and getting sweat on it is the last thing I want to do. I spend a good twenty minutes on my hair alone this morning, too, and to have it all gone to waste because some fucking jackass decided to stand on the edge of a drop off is in no way my fault.

It is now that I realize, not for the first time, that the world is cruel and unfair.

I rest for a little, regain my energy and willpower, and begin back up the path again at a slightly faster pace than before. I notice that in my haste, I stepped in some mud and got my Merrell Women's Accentor Ventilator Waterproof Mid Hikers with M-Select GRIP outsoles and open mesh uppers team with waterproof membranes (By _Cabela's_ , $328… although I stole them) a little dirty and mentally kick myself.

The forest has always been alluring to me. Deep in the woods, animals slaughter one another without remorse all in the name of survival. A bobcat eats an entire family of rabbits without care, a mother bird consumes one of her own children to feed the rest. In the forest, if you go even deeper, nobody can hear you yell. Many times, I have traveled far into the woods and screamed as loud as I could. It's tough living in such a big family, especially if you spend every waking moment living behind a facade and hiding your true self because it's the only way you know how to interact with others while keeping your murderous desires a secret, and a good scream every now and then helps.

Before long, I finally reach the top of the mountain. I breathe in the fresh air, and soak in the view around me. The forest spreads out for so long that I can't see the end, going far beyond the town border. I take a couple of pictures on my phone, and just as I'm getting ready to leave and start heading back down the mountain, a boy about my age comes up the path.

"Hey," he says.

"You look… filthy," I say, noticing how he's covered in dirt and mud. There's even a couple of small twigs in his hair.

He chuckled. "Yeah, someone or something pushed me off a ledge when I was coming up. I have no clue what the hell it was. Maybe a branch falling, maybe even someone that wasn't paying attention to where they were going and knocked me off. I don't know, though. Whatever it was, it hit pretty hard, and no one was around to help me back up. I have no clue."

"That sounds pretty rough," I say, only just now remembering that it was _me_ that pushed him off. "Hey, what's your name? I like knowing people's names."

"Walter," he says.

We look at each other for a while, and he smiles. I don't know what compels me to do so—maybe it's the anguish I'm experiencing from having gotten my boots dirty, maybe it's the joy I've extrapolated from reaching the top of the mountain, maybe it's just because I'm crazy but I know there's nothing I can do to help myself and there's no one I know that would be willing to help me—but I say something that's not at all unlike what I think of every day but saying out loud is very un-Leni.

I smile back at him. "Hey, want to hear a joke?"

There's a brief pause, and then he rolls back on forth on the balls of his feet. "Sure. What's the joke?"

I giggle. "How do you make a mountain bigger?"

There's another pause as he thinks. Eventually, he gives up.

"I don't know. How _do_ you make a mountain bigger?"

"By pushing everything else to the earth."


	2. Small Animals

Haha, that's pretty clever," says Walter. "I guess that's _one_ way to make a mountain bigger."

There's a moment of awkward silence as I look at him, smiling, and he looks back at me.

"Hey," he says, "you know my name, but I don't know yours… what is it?"

"...Lori," I lie. "It's… Lori. That's my name. Lori."

"That's a pretty name."

There's another silence, this time longer. I look at him blankly, board. He smiles back.

"Well, I'm gonna go," he says, picking up his backpack. "It was nice meeting you, Lori."

I wave him goodbye and he waves back and leaves. I stay at the top of the mountain and take my lunch out of my teal and yellow string bag by _Nike_ , $38, and begin to eat. I go through a sandwich, almond bar, and cranberry juice, which is red and makes my tongue red and because of this I giggle. Then, I spend a little over an hour trying to get every last trace of mud off of my boots.

I descend back down the mountain, and sit on a park bench in the park area when I reach the bottom. I rest for a while and use my phone camera to make sure my hair is in good shape.

I notice a park ranger setting up a cage. Curious, I approach him. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Putting up squirrel traps," he says without looking up. "We've had a real problem with them lately. There's too many."

"Oh, okay," I say, tilting my head a little to the side.

When he doesn't say anything else, I go back to my bench and inspect my boots again to make sure I didn't get any mud of them from the walk back down. After this, I look back up at the park ranger. He's gone, now, and the trap is set up.

I'm about to stand up and start to head on home, but then I notice a squirrel scurry across the ground, come to the front of the trap, look at it for a moment, and then go to get the food that is inside. Automatically, the trap closes, and the squirrel runs around in a panic, trying to get out.

I have an idea. I look around, making sure the coast is clear, and then walk over to the trap. I casually pick up the cage and stuff it into my backpack. Luckily, it fits, albeit only barely. I hear the squirrel scratching away at the metal trap, trying to get out, and I smile at just how helpless it is.

I use my bus pass to get home, and then go to the garage, locking the door behind me. Lana leaves her toolbox in here, so I have a lot of tools at my disposal: wrenches, nails, screwdrivers, chisels, rasps, the works.

I torture the squirrel for almost three hours, but then I grow bored, so I just end up taking its organs and innards and nailing them to the garage walls, sitting down and admiring my handiwork for a little over half an hour, then taking them down and throwing them out so nobody knows what I did and then leave the garage.

* * *

The doorbell rings. I'm helping Father cook dinner, and he puts down the big bowl he had been stirring in to answer it.

I'm chopping onions, but oddly enough, I don't cry while doing so. I overhear the conversation at the front door while I work.

"Oh, hello there," I hear Father say.

"Hello, Mr. Loud. My name is Patrick. I don't know if you know me, but I live right across the street from you."

 _I_ know who Patrick is—he's the twenty-year-old son of our neighbors. He still lives with his parents, and he's a nature nut.

"Yes, I think we've met before. What brings you to my humble abode?"

"Well, I just wanted to have a brief word with you about your cat."

"Oh, Cliff? What about him?"

"Well, you see, domestic cats have had a catastrophic—no pun intended, sorry—effect on the local bird population. You see, American songbirds never really evolved any defences against them. Cats kill them for sport, thousands a day in this town alone, and it could have effects on the local ecosystem that have yet to be seen. Your one cat alone probably kills over a dozen birds a month."

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir. And that's not even counting all of the baby birds that will die because their parents have been murdered and can't bring food back to them."

"Well, that does sound very problematic. But, to be honest with you, all I really care about is letting my children learn to take care of a pet and have responsibility for it. Are you trying to tell me they shouldn't be allowed to do that?"

"No, of course not. All I'm asking is that you keep your cat indoors. You do it during the winter, so why not during the spring and summer, too?"

"Well, that seems awfully restrictive. Cliff loves going outside. He's an animal—he likes to roam freely. It doesn't sound right to force him to stay inside when the weather is nice."

"Are you suggesting that your cat's sense of freedom is more important than the life of dozens of Royal Woods birds?"

"I'm just saying that my children matter to me more than the children of some bird."

I hear Patrick sigh.

"Patrick," says Father, "may I ask why you suddenly care so much about the birds of Royal Woods?"

"Funny you should ask. You're the only one with a cat on this street, and for the past couple of months, there have been times when I've spotted dead birds on my front porch. Just this morning when I went outside, in fact, I found a blue jay mutilated and gutted. My little brothers saw it, and they were petrified. I don't necessarily care extremely much about all of the town's birds, per say, but I guess I'm just trying to reason with you on why it's a good idea to keep your cat inside."

"Cliff would _never_ do that! He doesn't even like hunting normally, and even if he did, I know he wouldn't do those kinds of things to birds after catching them. It must be some other neighborhood cat."

I poke my head out into the living room. I see Patrick shaking his head.

"I don't think so, Mr. Loud. I've never seen any other cats around here except for yours."

"Well, it's not us. You have the wrong household."

"I don't think I do, Mr. Loud. At any rate, though, thank you for listening to me. I hope you'll give it some thought and reconsider letting your cat outside."

Father closes the door and goes back to the kitchen. He rolls his eyes, and we get back to cooking.

"Some nuthead," he says, putting a dish in the oven. "Cliff wouldn't do _anything_ like that, right?"

"Nope," I say, and smile. "I wonder who _did_ do it."

* * *

I don't know when I lost it. Maybe it's been a steady decline that has been going on for many years. Maybe it started the day I was born.

I have conflicting memories. I remember one time when I was eight and Lincoln was three. We were alone in the living room, and I was playing peek-a-boo with him, and out of nowhere I grabbed his fist, put it in my mouth, and bit down as hard as I could. Nothing in particular compelled me to do it, and I felt no regret or remorse, even when he started to cry worse than I've ever seen him cry before. Luckily, he was too young to remember this. I was more careful from the point forward.

Then again, I remember a rare time when I was eleven and gave my favorite doll to Lola to cheer her up after Lana had ruined _her_ favorite doll. I felt a genuine desire to help Lola, even if it met that I'd lose my favorite toy. That feeling is something I've lost over the years.

Ever since I could remember being able to talk and walk, I pretended to be something I was not. I pulled the cat's tail, and got yelled at for doing so. Instead of stopping pulling the cat's tail, like most people in my situation would do, I instead elected to only do it when nobody was watching. I cheated at a board game. When Father told me that cheating was bad and to not do so, instead of stopping my cheating, I only made sure to do it when I knew I could get away with doing it without getting caught. I haven't been caught cheating ever since.

Presently, we're eating dinner, the same dinner that I helped cook. I usually help out around the house because, one, it helps me keep up the illusion that I'm somebody who's kind and puts others before herself, and, two, I really don't have much else to do. I don't find reading or playing games or watching television (other than, of course, the local news because they sometimes talk about Coyle's death) entertaining or amusing. I'm bored a lot of the time, and usually looking for something to do around the house.

I look at Lincoln. Though he is my brother, and though we share the DNA, we are polar opposite human beings. Lincoln is innocent and innocuous; he is bloodless, clean, a virgin to violence. No matter how much I wash my hands, they will remain bloody. No matter how hard I try to work on clearing my mind, it will always remain rotted and twisted.

I want to change. I really do. Ever since I was a little girl, I lied, cheated, and wished nothing but the worst for my enemies No one, however, ever suspected me, because I've lived my entire life behind a mask, ever since my earliest memories; I acted sweet and dumb, though I am neither of these things, not by a long shot. This is how I have always lived my life; this is how I have always dealt with the tangible; this is what I constructed each and every one of my movements around.

I've come to accept what I am, but that doesn't mean that I've come to _like_ what I am.

Looking at Lincoln from across the table, I realize now that he is my only path to salvation, my only hope to change who I am. I don't want to spend the rest of my life pretending to be someone who I'm not. At the same time, though, I don't want to admit my true nature. It would come as a shock to my family, and even though they love me (a sentiment I am unable to return) they would immediately contact the police for my killing of Coyle. Even if I leave the part out about my killing (which I don't want to do; if I confess my true nature, I only want to confess _all_ of it), they'd begin to suspect me of being the murderer.

No, Lincoln is my only way to change. I have a plan: In private, I'll confess everything to him. He's sweet, he's kind, and he only wants the best for me. Only Lincoln, I suspect, would be capable of keeping the secret for my safety. Once I get it all off my chest, once I know that I am not alone in knowing my terrible secret, I can begin to get better. I can begin to turn into that sweet, innocuous girl that everything thinks I am.

I just need to start by confessing my sins to Lincoln.


	3. Balloons That No One Will Ever Hold

We're still sitting at the dinner table. I look outside, and see a leaf press up against the dining room window, carried by the chilly Autumn wind.

Dinner ends, and I excuse myself. It's mid-October, and though it usually gets cooler around this time of year, there's still been a few exceptionally hot days. Because of the heat, I've had very intense dreams. Tonight is no exception. I dream of a balloon. The weird thing, though, is that the balloon is orange has Lincoln's face on it. For a long time, my dream is dominated by that ballon; many colors pulse powerfully in the background, like a rainbow, but in the center of my focus is that balloon. Before long, it pops with a painful _BANG!_ , as if a gun went off right next to my head. I wake up in a cold sweat, go downstairs, drank a glass of water, and head on back to bed.

I complete my morning routine, and the slow drag of school begins. I always try to get at least eight, preferably nine, hours of sleep a night to maintain my youthful appearance for as long as possible. Because of my dream, though, I had trouble getting some good time spent asleep, and I am a bit sluggish today. I don't pay much attention in any classes. If I'm called on, I just give a stupid Leni answer, as per usual.

Something unusual, however, happens in sociology class.

"What is the most important part of society?" asks Mr. Carter. It's early, and nobody bothers raising their hand to answer. Mr. Carter looks at me. "Leni, what do you think?"

He's not expecting a good answer, because I never give them. Instinctively, I get ready to say _the uniforms, because no society is complete without a good outfit. Look at the honors society at this school. Their outfits are so colorful!_

"Society depends upon restraint," I say instead, matter-of-factly, standing up without realizing I'm doing so.

Mr. Carter looks surprised. "That's a very good answer," he says. "However, are you sure that's the _most_ important part?"

"I'm positive. For all of human history, the most successful empires and countries were usually the strictest. The ten commandments suppress all carnal human urges. Theft, lust… murder."

The class is looking at me like I have a plant growing out of my head, taken off guard by my very un-Leni answers. I feel their eyes glued to me.

"But, Leni, does that remain true in _our_ society? " he challenges. "If society depended mostly upon restraint, why are there so many scandals? Why do the most powerful people seem to have the least restraint?"

"That's true, but for every Bill Clinton or Harvey Weinstein or… Ted Bundy, you have thousands of honorable Americans who look down upon their actions and hold themselves to a higher standard."

There's an uncomfortably long period of silence in the classroom. Only now do I realize that maybe I shouldn't have broken character. I begin to wonder why now, of all times, I actually spoke my mind.

I'm cutting balloon strings of very important balloons that keep my facade in the air, above the ground, floating, preventing it from hitting the floor and shattering.

"Very enlightening, Leni," Mr. Carter says at last. "Thank you. You may take your seat."

* * *

"What the fuck was _that?_ " Becky asks in the hallway. "Why did you—" she looks down at my wrist. "Leni, why is your watch on backwards?"

I look at my stolen Teal and Yellow Momento Floral Leather Strap Watch, 34mm, by _Nordstrom_ , $1075, and it is, indeed, on backward. I take it off, and begin to put it on the right way.

Blair approaches. "Either of you busy after school today?" she asks. "I'm going to the park."

"No can do," says Becky. "I gotta see my Dad in the hospital."

I finish putting on my watch properly, and turn back to Blair. "I can go," I say, not particularly looking forward to it, but I really have nothing better to do.

When school ends and we begin our walk to the park in the center of town, a different one from the park where I stole a squirrel and a cage, I make sure. The day is cooler. Breezes brush by me and I worry for my hair.

We sit on a bench, and talk about trivial, banal topics for a while like we usually do. Soon enough, we take out our phones and cease any further conversation. A normal day at the park.

A jogger about my age runs by us, and looks back at me and Blair.

"Hi, Lori!" he says. I recognize him as the person I met at the top of the mountain, the person who I kicked off the path.

"Oh, hi, Walter!" I chirp.

A breeze goes by.

"What are you doing here?"

"Just jogging. Practicing for Cross-Country."

I nod. Silence befalls.

"You know," I say, "you seem, like, _totes_ a nice guy. I'd like to be friends with you."

He laughs. "That sounds good."

"Want to eat dinner with my family tonight?"

"Sounds fun! What time?"

"We usually eat around six. 1216 Franklin Avenue."

He nods. "Alright then. I'll see you then, Lori."

As he jogs away, Blair, silent until now, turns to me. "Why was he calling you Lori?"

"I think your watch is on backwards, Blair."

* * *

"I invited a friend over for dinner," I tell Dad when I walk through the front door. He's on the couch, watching the cooking channel. "Is that okay?"

"Sure thing, kiddo. I'll be sure to cook a little extra."

Before getting ready for dinner, I go into my room, sit on my bed, and take out my notebook hidden in my pillowcase. Alone, I open to page six, and I review some of the notes that I have collected over the years:

 _16\. if your binging on dry things make sure you drink extra fluids to get it all to come up, othersise its sucks ASS!_

 _17\. Say your going for a shower or bath then when you puke run the water and after have a shower or bath. i also turn my bathroom radio on, gets a little more noise going…_

 _18\. if you're purging in a public toilet, flush the toilet with each puke episode… it covers the sound & you can always say that the toilet isn't flushing forcefully enough (like it's broken)_

 _19\. Stand up when putting your finger down your throat… when it is down… breath in… lots of air… then bend over it will come out_

 _20\. instead of just sticking your fingers down your throat what you have to do is find the hole in your mouth that you breath out of (not the one that leads to the esophagus) and slightly stick your finger in it (careful you might hurt yourself if you do it too hard unlike the regular esophagus thing).. it makes you more nauseous and makes more food come up_

 _21\. instead of rising suspicion by going to the bathroom after every meal, go to your room, turn the stereo up and purge in a garbage can. you'll get a chance to see how much actually came up and it'll be easier to hide if you make any noise_

 _22\. Use soft food to purge, it's easier_

 _23\. Use markers such as Doritos, so you know everything is up when you see the orange_

 _24\. Rock backwards and forwards while you are making yourself purge… I've found the rhythm and momentum help make being easier_

I think of a new thing to add to the list, something I'm surprised I haven't thought of until now, and flip a few pages ahead until I find the end of the list. I write:

 _67\. ice cream is #1 for puking…tastes SO GOOD (fatty, but hey that's what bingeing is for) and practically pukes itself out_

I put my notebook back away and spend the next couple of hours before dinner laying facedown on my bed, motionless. I make sure I don't fall asleep because that would only make it difficult to sleep when night comes, and I require more than all else at least eight, preferably nine, hours of rest. In this period of time, I pity myself a little, but most of the time I spend thinking about the night I killed Coyle. I play the situation over again and again in my head, reviewing every second of it.

The doorbell rings. I go downstairs to answer, but Lola beat me to it. Walter is in the doorway.

Lola inspects Walter. "Who are you?"

"I'm here to have dinner," he says. "Lori invited me."

" _Oooooo!_ Lori brought a _boy_ over!" Lola is being a little shit and I hate her for this.

Poor Walter blushes.

"Lola," I say, walking behind her and gently moving her out of the way. _I want to fucking_ "That's no way—" _crucify you_ — "to treat—" _with a nail gun,_ — "...a guest."

Walter, though shy, strikes up an interesting conversation with my parents while we eat.

"I bet you don't see many families quite this big," Father says, and chuckles.

Walter smiles. "Overpopulation is an issue, sure, but you guys seem like such nice people. I wish there were more families like yours."

Father stabs a green bean with his fork. "Overpopulation, huh?" He begins chewing. "I'm not aware of any immediate issues with overpopulation."

"Immediate, no," says Walter, "but in America alone, the population's going to rise by fifty percent in the next four decades. Think about how crowded the exurbs are already, think about the traffic and the sprawl and the environmental degradation and the dependence on foreign oil. And then add fifty percent."

Even with fourteen usually chatty people at the table, there is an awkward silence.

"Have you heard of the Club of Rome?" asks Walter, breaking the quiet.

Father thinks for a moment. "No, I can't say I have. Enlighten me, Walter. What's the Club of Rome?"

"They're a non-profit organization of highly educated individuals who are concerned about the future of mankind, mostly about overpopulation."

"Well, I—" Father begins.

"I hope to one day become a member myself," Walter quickly adds.

After another uncomfortable pause, Father speaks back up. "Well, I hope they're successful."

* * *

After dinner, I wave Walter goodbye as he leaves, go to the bathroom, complete my routine, and come back downstairs. I sit down the couch, patiently awaiting the end of the hour when the local news comes on, hoping that they'll talk about Coyle Haven. In the meantime, I sit and watch Lincoln play video games. He plays them like they're crack and he's an addict.

On the screen, Lincoln's character takes a bat and swings it hard into another player's head.

" _Ouch_ ," I say.

The opposing character falls to the ground, and Lincoln proceeds to hit him again, again, and again.

"He should be bleeding by now," I say.

"Mom only lets me play T rated games at the most," he says. "There's no blood in this game."

"A human skull can't sustain that many hard blows to the head," I say, ignoring him. "His head would at least be cracked by now, and he's gonna have lots of brain damage. It's a miracle he's still even conscious."

Lincoln slowly turns around and looks at me like I'm crazy.

I need to stop talking about un-Leni things.

The doorbell rings, and I stand up quickly. "I'll get it!" I announce, and go to the front door. Opening it, I see a man who looks to sixty but is probably only in his late forties. His hair is greying, and he has visible lines of stress under his eyes. A ripple of fear goes through me, and I momentarily lose my focus. He's holding a suit and wearing a briefcase (...wait, no, he's wearing a suit and holding a briefcase) and he looks apprehensive.

"Hello!" I chirp, trying to hide my fear. Is this man here because of what I did to Coyle? "How can I help you, mister?"

The man adjusts his tie and holds his hand out. "I'm Donald Elbert," he says. " _Detective_ Donald Elbert."

I reach out and shake his hand firmly. I quickly realize that, no, if I was a suspect in Coyle's death, the police would be here, not a detective. I was careful. I made sure to use gloves and leave no fingerprints, strands of hair, or any other sort of DNA behind. Why, then, is there a detective at the house?

"May I speak with one of your parents?"

Before I can say anything, Father speaks up from behind me. "I'm right here. What do you need?"

"Mr. Loud, I understand that you have several daughters currently enrolled in Royal Woods High,.the same school that Coyle Haven had used to attend. May I have the privilege of speaking with a couple of them? Just briefly."

Father puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes lovingly. "Leni here goes to that school. You can start by talking to her."

Donald looks at me and smiles. "Is that okay, Miss Leni?"

I'm starting to not really like Donald. He's friendly, charming, and charismatic, but under all that, I know he's only going to cause trouble. I don't consider him even a man, now, just an obstacle, something annoying and in my way.

"Of course!" I chirp, forcing a smile, and though I've done it hundreds, no, _thousands_ of times, faking a smile, for some reason, is really hard to do right now.


	4. Nameless Lake

Father quickly brings out two folding chairs and puts them on the back deck, allowing me and Donald some privacy. It sits and so do I. Father leaves.

"So," I say, "what do you want to talk about?"

"Well," it says, opening his briefcase on the ground and taking out a notebook, "what can you tell me about Coyle Haven?"

All I really know about Coyle is that he screamed loud and was annoying. I never really had a friendship with him or even consider him an acquaintance. He just happened to be unlucky enough to meet me in the park, alone at night during a period of personal mental anguish that I happened to cure temporarily by lashing out at him. I took him deep into the woods, and he followed like a lamb to the slaughter. Once mute, I carried him over my shoulders in the night through the small woods behind my house, over the backyard fence, and into the garage to finish the job and cut him up for easy disposal.

"Not much," I admit. "I'm… at a loss. Like, I know he was _totes_ nice—" a lie. From what I heard, he was actually kind of a jerk— "and I feel horrible about what happened to him."

Donald looks at me, his eyes glued to my own. Is he searching for signs of fear? Apprehension?

It nods. "Leni," it says, looking down at its notepad and writing something, "even if you don't know much about him, do you have any idea why someone he knew may have been angry with him? Do you think you know of anyone that could have a motive to… do harm to Coyle?"

I pretend to think for a moment and shake my head. "Not that I know of. I don't know much about him, and from what I do know, he got along well with others."

It nods.

"And, like," I continue, "I don't know why this happened to _him_ of all people. Our school isn't perfect, there's a bunch of people there that can be really mean to others sometimes. It almost makes me think, uh, someone was just lashing out on him because he was an easy target or just the first person they saw when they got really mad or something."

It had been writing, but the detective looks up at me when I say this. "That's very insightful, Leni," says Donald. "What makes you say that?"

Only now do I realize that I might have said too much, and I quickly need to recuperate. "I just think, like, why _Coyle?_ He wasn't especially nice or mean. He was the most average guy I probably knew. He's the last person I'd imagine this kind of thing happening to… I mean, like, before, I never imagined someone being killed in the first place… but I don't think anyone had any special motivations to kill Coyle. It doesn't make sense. That's why I think it might have been a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, or whatever you call it."

It nods. "You seem to be pretty comfortable talking about things like this. Most of the students I've talked to so far have been much less willing to bring up the topic."

I bite my tongue.

"You're also the only one who's referred to Coyle exclusively with past tense words."

Silence hangs in the air.

"Now," it eventually says, "I'm not accusing you of anything of course, but, Leni, I'd like to know. Just out of curiosity. Where were you the night of Coyle's initial disappearance?"

My chest tightens.

I begin to speak up with a lie, but quickly stop myself. "When… exactly was that?" I say, not wanting to give away too much information. The body wasn't discovered until two days after that night. Letting Donald know that I knew the exact night Coyle was gone would raise lots and lots of suspicion.

"That would be the 8th of September."

I nod, thinking. "I was… gosh, I guess I was probably at the mall."

"The mall."

"Uh-huh."

It flips a few pages back in its notebook. "That's…" It squints at his notebook. "That's not the information that I've been given."

"What?"

"According to your friends, that day you had been invited to a party, but refused because that night you said you would be busy getting your watch fixed."

My blood runs cold. "Yeah, I remember." I nod a bit too quickly. "I was going to the watch store in the mall."

"The Royal Woods mall?"

"Yup."

"I'm not aware of any watch store in that mall. Are you sure?"

My stomach turns to ice. "Uh, I'm pretty sure… if not, then I might have thought there was a watch store there."

It flips more pages through its notebook. "From what I've learned from your friends and people that knew you, Leni, you like to spend a lot of time at the mall. It's your favorite place to be. Correct?"

"Yeah."

"And you didn't know that there wasn't a watch store there? It's not an especially large mall."

I put a thoughtful finger to my chin. "No, I guess not."

There's a brief moment of silence before he nods slowly. "Okay. I see." He motions to the back door. "That's all for now. You are free to go."

* * *

Though it's chilly outside in the Royal Woods morning, I'm sweating as I walk on the side of the road. The interview with the detective yesterday did not at all go as smoothly as it could have. While I'm usually great at being who I need to be, at faking whatever emotion I need to, for some reason, that was difficult for me to do during my time with Donald. This frightens me greatly.

It's Saturday, and I had planned to meet up with Walter near Nameless Lake. It's not really called that; on no map of Royal Woods, the lake actually has no name. It's just too small and obscure. Thus, the youth of Royal Woods have come to refer to it at Nameless Lake. I come up to the bench that we had agreed to meet up at, sit, and look out at the lake. It's an amazing view.

I don't have to wait long before he comes up the path and approaches me. "Hi, Lori. You ate breakfast, right?"

"Yeah," I lie.

"Me too. Wanna get some coffee? I know a good place not too far from here."

"That sounds lovely, Walter."

We eventually take our seats at an outdoor table at a coffee shop. He offers to go in and order for us both, and I ask him to get me a small coffee, black.

"Uh, black coffee? You sure?"

"I always drink black coffee," I answer truthfully. "Everyday at home."

He chuckles. "Lori Loud, I have a lot to learn about you."

In his absence, I look at the table in front of me; a woman is reading the newspaper, and on the front page I see a picture of a wildfire in California. This makes me think. I have never firebombed anything and I start wondering how one goes about it—what materials are involved, gasoline, matches… or would it be lighter fluid?

"Here you go," Walter says, putting my black coffee in front of me and sitting. He takes a sip of his own, obviously not prepared for how hot it is.

"Thanks, Walter."

He looks at me curiously as I take a sip of my own. "Uh, does that stuff taste good?"

"Tastes like shit," I admit.

"...Then why do you drink it?"

I put my drink down on the table. "I… to tell you the truth, I don't really know."

There's a moment of silence, and then he shrugs. "Everyone's different, I guess."

We both look as not too far from us, on the other side of a street, a cat pounces on a bird. It bites at it for a few moments before growing bored and walking off, leaving the poor bird hanging on to life.

"That's just sick," Walter says. "I hate cats. They're the sociopaths of the animal world."

"What do you mean, Walter?"

"I've never seen anything in a cat's face but simpering incuriosity and self-interest." He takes a sip of his coffee. "You only had to tease one with a mouse-toy to see where it's true heart lay… cats are all about using people"

I think back to a play that me and my siblings put on for my parents, and I wonder why I dressed up as a cat of all things.

Walter continues to talk, but I'm not really listening at this point. I can only think that it did not occur to me, ever, that people were good or that a man was capable of change or that the world could be a better place through one's receiving another person's love or kindness.

This was how I lived my life for as long as I could remember. I don't remember my happiest day. I don't remember ever being happy. I try to expand my knowledge by reading one book a week, but I fear that it is all for nothing. What's the point? What's the point in anything?

Love is mathematics, nothing more than a chemical reaction and random chance. Generosity and selflessness is a joke. Ambition is a lie. Our world is run by sociopaths willing to do anything to get ahead.

Our society is fake, plastic and surface-level, no _wonder_ sociopaths get ahead; we see it reflected nearly everywhere. When you do a job interview, you are taught to smile and shake hands and laugh when you don't feel the need to do so naturally.

Confessing to Lincoln my sins is, I fear, the only way I can change, to be able to enjoy banal and ultimately pointless things like smiles and standing up for a friend. Though I mock those that get off on simple things like hanging out with friends because they _enjoy_ it and not because they need to maintain an image, or people who actually, even just sometimes, put others ahead of themselves, I want nothing more than to be capable of these things and more. I long for it, I need a taste. As soon as I get the chance, I'll tell Lincoln everything. I really don't know what I'll do from there, but it's my best option.

"...I play piano, you know," Walter is saying, "and the piece I'm working on right now is really good. The only problem is that it's really complicated. My teacher keeps on making changes to it. I'm just worried she'll change it so much to the point where we'd no longer be keeping the integrity of the piece..."

 _Walter,_ I think, _integrity's a neutral value. Hyenas have integrity, too. They're pure hyena._

* * *

Monday. At lunch, I begin to walk over to the table I usually sit at with Blair and Becky and some other friends that I really don't know the names of, but before I get there, one table away from them, I see Walter and Chaz sitting. On impulse, I decide to sit down with them instead.

"Hi, Lori," Walter says as I put down my lunch bag at the table.

Chaz looks confused as Walter calls me Lori, and I can see him about to speak up, almost certainly to question this, but I cut him off.

"Hi, Walter. Hi, Chaz. Did you two hear about the accident?"

Both consider this then shake their head.

"No, Leni," says Chaz. "What accident are you talking about?"

I pause. _What_ accident? I was only trying to stop Chaz from speaking. I have no idea what I'm talking about.

"There was… a car accident," I quickly say. "This morning. I… I hit a cat with a car."

"Ouch," says Walter.

Chaz looks up at me, realizing something. "Wait, Lori, you don't have a license."

I giggle. "Did I say _car_? I meant lawnmower. I ran it over with my lawnmower… shredded the poor thing."

"You were mowing your lawn before school? In the morning?"

I nod my head.

There is a pause as we eat. I take out my lunch. It consists of a salad (extra grape tomatoes, always), a bottle of water, and a sandwich made of a single piece of bread (cut in half so one half could go on the bottom and one could go on the top), a slice of cheese, and a slice of ham.

" _Leniiiii_ ," wails Blair from the table behind me, "Why aren't you sitting with us?"

I turn. "I was just having a fascinating chat with Chaz and Walter. Walter is so interesting. Did you know he's an expert on overpopulation?"

He chuckles nervously. "Well, I wouldn't say I'm an _expert._ "

"No, it's true," I assure. "Walter here is a passionate liberal. He knows _all_ about how wasteful our species is! How almost all of us have six-foot-wide plasma TVs that eat up massive amounts of energy, even when we're not even using them! How we strip-mine ancestral hills and feed the coal-fired generators that are the number-one cause of global warming and other excellent things like acid rain."

By now, everyone at Becky's table as well as Walter and Chaz are looking at me, shocked. This is not Leni Loud talk, but I continue regardless.

"Walter is _very_ passionate about the fact that we are adding almost thirteen million human beings to the population, in this country alone, every month!" I get up and stand on top of the lunch table. "THIRTEEN MILLION MORE PEOPLE TO KILL EACH OTHER IN COMPETITION OVER FINITE RESOURCES! AND WIPE OUT EVERY OTHER LIVING THING ALONG THE WAY!" I'm yelling, now. "IT IS A PERFECT FUCKING WORLD AS LONG AS YOU DON'T COUNT EVERY OTHER SPECIES IN IT! WE ARE A CANCER ON THE PLANT! A CANCER ON THE PLANET!"

As I calm down, and catch my breath, I look around the cafeteria. It is now dead silent, and every single person in the room is looking my way.


	5. Lola Finds a Big, Black, Wet Rat

I step down from the lunch table. Walter's standing in front of me, his eyes wide with concern. "Easy, Leni…" he says.

Chaz simply looks up at me like I'm crazy.

The bell rings, ending lunch, and one by one people look away from me and resumes whatever conversations they were having before my outburst.

I giggle. "Sorry about that, boys. I'm just a bit worked up from all of the homework we've been getting lately."

They say nothing.

I stand and look at the ground. In shame? In embarrassment? In regret? I don't know. I'm not exactly used to having these feelings. The other students walk past me one by one until I look up at last and see that I'm alone in the cafeteria. I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder, but not before kicking it hard and hurting my foot.

* * *

Night. It's warm out, and I'm wandering aimlessly through the eastern part of Royal Woods. Eastern Royal Woods is basically the same exact thing as western Royal Woods, but made better by its proximity to the train station to Detroit. I don't like black people. The street lamps cast a dim, ominous light down at the sidewalk underneath them, and I hum a tune to myself as I walk up the sidewalk on a small hill.

In my pocket, my phone vibrates, and I fish it out and look at the screen. Lori is calling.

Why does she have to call me when I'm enjoying a quiet walk? I look around. I'm alone "You _bitch!_ " I yell, getting my anger toward my older sister out of the way. Sighing, I answer the call.

"Hi!" I answer in a fake syrupy sweet voice.

" _Leni?_ " she asks.

"What's up?"

" _You're coming home soon, right?_ "

"Uh, yeah. Why do you ask?"

There's a brief pause. " _It's just… dangerous out there, you know? I just want to make sure you're safe._ "

This shit again. _It's dangerous out there._ I check my watch. _8:56_.

"That's very kind of you, Lori. I'm glad you're worried about me!" I chuckle. "But I'll be fine. I'll start heading home now."

" _Where are you?_ "

"Eastern Royal Woods." I look up for a landmark, and see the town cemetery. "By the burial site."

" _It's gonna take you a while, then. Can I come pick you up, Leni?_ "

"That sounds good. Thanks, Lori!"

" _Alrighty, I'll be there in 15 minutes._ "

"I'll see you then. Love you," I lie.

" _Love you too, Leni,_ " Lori says. She hangs up.

I walk ahead to the entrance of the cemetery, my destination all along. I briefly look behind me. There's nobody around. Casually, I walk inside. I scan the area, and the cemetery is empty. I am alone.

I went to Coyle's funeral, so I know where his gravestone is. I saw his casket lowered into the ground. After a short walk, I am standing in front of it.

COYLE HAVEN, 1999 - 2018

 _Beloved friend and kind soul to all._

I scoff. The way you are remembered, I think to myself, is determined by the way you die. If you die trying to do a stupid stunt while you're drunk, people will remember you as an idiot. If you die victim to a gruesome murder, people will remember you as a kind, gentle, tragic victim.

I didn't know Coyle well, but from what I know, he was a genuinely unpleasant person. Because he happened to be unlucky enough to run into me when I was looking for a person to kill to calm my nerves, he's remembered as a _beloved friend_ and a _kind soul to all_? It's rubbish. Bullshit.

Not that I care. Humans are surface-level and plastic as a whole, and I don't really concern myself with them either way. Let them cry over some random kid dying. There's literally thousands of people that die every week. Horrible things happen to people every day. As soon as something happens to someone in their community, though, they go ballistic. It's pathetic. You have to be a shallow, brainless idiot to get upset over _one_ random kid dying. I'm completely surrounded by fools, flanked on all fronts with no escape. I hate it.

I kneel down on the fresh dirt set out in front of Coyle's headstone. "Look at you now," I mock. "Dead. Try fighting back against me _now,_ you stupid bastard."

Silence.

"You were just like the rest of them. You were able to make friends, have a good time in school… you probably had a girlfriend or two at one point."

Coyle says nothing.

"You could… _connect_ with people," I continue. "You… _enjoyed_ spending time with others. People cared about _you_ in return, I suppose. If they didn't, you wouldn't have a nice little grave."

He raises no defense.

"But… it doesn't matter, now… does it?"

…

"Coyle, do you know _why_ it doesn't matter?"

…

"Because you have nothing left but your epitaph."

Silence.

I begin to smile and laugh. It's little more than a chuckle at first, but quickly, it grows until it's a roaring howl. I don't know how or when I got in this position, but by now, I'm on all fours on top of his grave, clenching dirt below me with a death tight grip.

"DO YOU HEAR, YOU FUCKING IDIOT? YOU'RE DEAD! I KILLED YOU!"

…

"ANSWER ME, COYLE! HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE DEAD? _HUH!?_

…

" _ANSWER ME!_ "

Coyle's tombstone is silent and still under the moonlight.

My laughter quickly cuts out. My smile fades. My eyes, once wise, grow narrow.

I stand up, brush the dust off of my clothes, and look down at Coyle's silent grave.

I don't know how long I stand there, but it must be a decent amount of time, because I eventually hear Lori's horn honking. I turn away and leave… I go back to the land of the living.

Back to the land of my torment.

* * *

I'm sitting on my bed, and Lori is laying down on hers, reading a hardcover novel. Soon, she puts her bookmark in her book, sets it down, and leaves. I'm alone.

With nothing better to do, I wander over to my desk, pick up my laptop, and bring it back to my bed. I decide to read the news. The biggest headlines are as follows:

 _\- NEW SPORT ADDED TO OLYMPIC ROSTER: DWARF TOSSING_

 _\- POPULAR MUSICIAN CAUGHT TRYING TO HAVE AFFAIR WITH HIS BRAIN DEAD GRANDMOTHER, WHOM IS PLUGGED INTO THE WALL AT NEARBY HOSPITAL_

 _\- IS HALLOWEEN BECOMING TOO SEXY FOR KIDS?_

These aren't really the titles of the articles but I changed some of the words around in my head to make them funnier to me. Lol! I get bored of clicking through the news and eventually I gravitate to darker websites, watch some violent and bloody rape but this does nothing for me and I get bored so I play an online game for a little while. In the game I play as a little red WWI plane and I need to shoot down enemy planes, as well as bomb anti-aircraft guns and enemy vehicles on the ground below. In the final level, I fight a big German zeppelin that is dropping bombs and marvel at the size of it compared to my tiny plane.

I manage to entertain myself for twenty minutes or so before I hear a cry from the bathroom. I close my laptop and get up to investigate. In the bathroom, I find Lola looking into the toilet with disgust and fear.

"What… is… _that!_ " she bellows, pointing into the toilet.

I look down and see a big, black, wet rat trying to crawl its way out to freedom.

I screech, not because I'm scared, but because the Leni that Lola knows would be terrified at such a creature.

"I'll-I'll catch it!" I say, rushing downstairs. I bolt out of the house and go to the garage, where I grab a cage, the same cage that I stole from the park whilst it had a squirrel inside of it. I noticed that the garage is beginning to smell a little bit from the innards and organs of the squirrel which are still in the trash, and make a mental note to myself to spray down the garage with Febreze or something later.

" _There_ you are!" Lola says when I run back into the bathroom with my cage. " _Kill_ it! "Kill it, Leni!"

"Killing is _wrong_ ," I say, trying not to laugh, and open up the cage. I quickly manage to get the big, black, wet rat into it.

I quickly close and lock the cage and turn to Lola. "I'm returning this to the woods, far away from here," I say.

She crosses her arms. "Fine," she says after a brief moment of thought.

I walk out of the bathroom and close the door behind me. I look down the hall. I'm alone. Good.

I rush back to my room, open my closet, and put the cage deep in the back of my side. I put my finger in the cage, and the big, black, wet rat, with it's chipped front tooth, bites deeply into my finger. It tries sinking its teeth deeper into my finger for a little while before I finally take it out. It's bleeding terribly and it hurts.

 _It's hungry_ , I think. I plan to starve it for at least a few days so it's still hungry, and very much so, when I have need for it.

I cover the cage with a heavy pile of clothes so that it can't be heard squeaking or trying to escape, and then close the closet door, and then wait outside the bathroom for Lola to get out, and put my bleeding finger in my shirt pocket so nobody can see it but it bleeds through, and when Lola finally comes out of the bathroom she looks at the red on my shirt and asks "what's _that_ , Leni?"

"Ketchup, you little high-strung devil," I say, smiling, before going in the bathroom and closing the door behind me.

* * *

"There is _victory_ in the Lord!" says the priest behind the tall, wooden pulpit. Our family takes up an entire pew of the church. It's hot in here.

I'm feeling much more drained than usual. Even the thought of undergoing the simple act of standing makes me feel tired. It's not a sleepy kind of tired, though. Many times sitting in church I feel my eyes feel heavy and fantasize about being in my warm, cozy bed. This is not one of those times, though. I'm feeling rather awake today, in fact. The kind of tired that I'm feeling right now stems more from motivation, or rather, a lack thereof. I don't feel like doing anything. Talking with others, fiddling on my phone, combing my hair. The thought of doing these things that I usually do repulse me. They're all so… _banal._ Trivial. Pointless.

Then again, doing something worthwhile like writing a book or studying for school or expanding my mind in any other way, are things that _also_ sound like they'd currently bore me if I try to do any of them. So…

"We must repent!" drones the priest. "The _Lord_ is our only way to eternal life!"

My family doesn't come to church regularly (having everyone get up in the morning five days a week to get to school is insanely difficult, so nobody really wants to bump that number up to _six_ ), but it's become a bit more frequent of an occurrence since Coyle kicked the bucket. Maybe father and mother think it will somehow help us stay safe, as if going to church will make God happy and he'll protect us better in turn. Maybe they're afraid that _we_ could be next, and if we are, then we'd have a better chance of getting into heaven if we had more regularly attended Sunday services.

I bite my lips against a chuckle. The thought of Lola playing with her pink jeep, laughing and smiling in the joy of youth, only to suddenly drive out in the road, not paying attention… only to have her car run out of battery… only to look behind her and realize it's too late when she sees a car had been speeding down the street, unaware of her…

I suddenly feel another intense wave of demotivation wash over me. The thought of being dragged to the hospital, then a wake, then a funeral, then whatever other events would happen as a result of Lola's death drains me even by simply thinking about it. The joyous event of hearing the screams of terror of my siblings as they realize, too late, that Lola had been hit, and their hopeless struggles to convince themselves that _everything is going to be alright_ , only for such thoughts to die as a doctor somberly walks over to them in a waiting room to deliver bad news, is not worth is considering the boredom that would follow. It would take weeks for the family to return to a normal state, and even then, Lola's death would always cast a shadow… I'd have to pretend that I cared. It would be easy but taxing on my energy. I'd hate it.

 _These thoughts are not normal_ , I think. This is not what a 16-year-old girl with a perfect family and lots of friends thought be thinking.

 _Obviously,_ I think back to myself. _But who cares?_

 _You want to get better, don't you?_

 _Well… yeah… but…_

 _Then stop this right now! Act NORMAL ! ! !_

I turn to Lynn, whom is sitting next to me. I place my hand on her leg. She looks up at me quizzically.

"Hey…" I whisper. I point at the preacher. "Good message, huh?"

She looks at me and nods dumbly. "Uh… yeah…"

"Are you having a good time?"

"I… I guess?"

"Good. Good." I turn back. I can feel Lynn continuing to look at me, probably thinking _what the hell was_ that _?_

I don't know how to act normal.

The priest continues on, and about 20 minutes later, Lynn farts. I hate her.

" _Lynn!_ " whisper-yells Lincoln next to me. " _Really?_ "

Although I, like all people in the Loud house, are used to Lynn's juvenile sense of humor, that she could consider something as simple as the basic human function of farting as funny, I think that the smell of Lynn herself is far worse. In my opinion, she is a terribly unpleasant human to be around. If I could pick any one of my sisters to have suffered a miscarriage and never be born, it'd easily be Lynn.

Lynn, like most people, said that she secretly enjoys the smell of her own farts. When she told me, I shook my head. The smell of Lynn herself, though, was something else. Something worse, in my opinion. It is so bad as to seem evil in a moral way. I hate Lynn.

…

Lol!

At last, the priest finishes. By the end of the message he is sweating and dabs his forehead with a wool cloth. Father sallys up the family and we march out of the church. It's chilly out and I shiver.

"There's a cold front coming through," father says, breaking the silence as we walk to Vanzilla. He's trying to make conversation. Nobody says anything else.

We drive home in silence as well. I look out the window as the car moves down the road, surrounded by the rural part of Royal Woods. The madness of a cold front: you could feel it. Something terrible was going to happen. The sun hangs low in the sky, a minor light, a cooling star. Gust after gust of disorder. Trees restless in the wind. Temperatures falling. The whole northern religion of things coming to an end. No children in the yards here. Shadows lengthened on yellowing zoysia. Red oaks and pin oaks and swamp white oaks rain acorns on houses with no mortgage. I spot one of them that is abandoned. When we get home and I sit on the couch, I don't think to turn on the TV and I am bored, so I make a list in my head.

 _List of four things that I hear around me right now:_

 _1\. The occasional quiet conversations from my siblings and parents_

 _2\. The faint drone and hiccup of the clothes dryer from the basement_

 _3\. The nasal contention of Mr. Grouse's leaf blower from the yard next to ours_

 _4\. The ripening of local apples in a paper bag_

 _5\. The danger of the gerontocratic suburbs of Royal Woods_

 _6\. A bell that nobody but me can hear directly. It is the alarm bell of anxiety_

I somehow can sense it before it happens. I don't have superpowers nor am I a psychic, but I can tell that it was coming before it got here. Something terrible.

The doorbell rings and Lori opens.

"Hello," it says, fastening it's tie.

"Hi," Lori says dumbly. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm here to speak with Leni, if that's alright," says detective Donald Elbert.


End file.
